FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

"Mrs. Peel... you're needed."

I'd have jumped out of my fur entirely, if I hadn't caught a whiff of wintergreen a few seconds earlier. As it was, I pivoted in place and looked at the tall, lanky figure leaning against the coat closet door of my condo, just inside the front entrance. He still wore his shield in the flip-style wallet, hanging half out of his suit jacket pocket. The casual smile on his human face was one that I had missed seeing upon waking, for so many mornings. His dark eyes danced softly beneath his high forehead and the close-cropped dark hair that I had run my fingers through so often, in those days.

"I think you're better looking than Patrick MacNee, may he forgive my saying so. It's good to see you, Philip. And thanks for the heads-up this time."

"It's as close to knocking as a ghost can get."

When he was alive, Philip Masterson had a penchant for Teaberry gum; now, after his passing, both I and his former partner (a raccoon homicide detective by the name of Anderson Pelletier) could sense Philip's presence by the whiff of the mild wintergreen scent. With Andy, it more often manifested as catching the aroma when he was making connections on a case. With me, it was more often associated with him showing up to talk to me. That's more likely to be expected, since Philip was my fiancé, and also because I'm a Charonite, a pneumanologist -- a therian called upon to deal with the spirits of those who had been killed suddenly, usually by an act of murder. It's a strange calling, but it's one that I'm good at.

I smiled at him. "It's good to see you." (There's a ton of debate about whether or not a Charonite actually "sees" anyone -- it's most often a sense of smell that is involved -- but Philip and I never bickered over it, then or now.)

"Always good to see you, lovely. Ah, Naomi, how I miss being able to hug."

I nodded, swallowing past the cliché in my throat. "By your greeting, I'm figuring this is more a business call, as it were?"

The smile became a grin. "Foxes are purported to be masters of subtlety, but you never missed a chance to jump four-pawed into the subject." He nodded. "I'm not entirely sure if this is a homicide case or a something more like lingering annoyance."

"That's quite the precursor. Okay, tell me what's going on."

He did. And I tried not to giggle.

* * * * * * * * * *

Spotted Pony Gifts and Crafts (Dream Catchers and Sand Paintings! Sacred Kachinas! Anasazi Pot Shards with Certificates of Authenticity! Blessing Way Ceremonies Available! You Can't Beat Our Medicine, Man!) occupied a location that should have gone for more money than a shop like this could make to support it. I say "shop like this" as if it actually had peers somewhere. It looked like something out of the worst area of town in a Tony Hillerman novel, a location made suspicious in his fiction because Hillerman was a better observer than whoever had dreamed this mess up. I'd parked a little way down the block and on the other side of the street, to give me time to look the place over and, perhaps, to give myself a means of appearing to have just walked in during an afternoon's stroll. Once more, I suppressed a giggle at Philip's description of the shop as a heap big buncha cattle poo-poo.

It was a tourist-trap place in a location that had no tourists to trap. Its existence could only be maintained by making it the only one of its kind in the area (insert praise to your favorite deity here). Mariposa Drive was a not-quite-side street that specialized in a three-block long collection of boutique and specialty stores, with enough parking space to make it work. Those stores are what drove traffic here, I imagined, along with certain "destination shops," as they're known in the retail trade. One of these lay just past the cross street (Timothy), and in some ways, it helped explain what might have helped the Spotted Pony get some business. An A-frame wooden sign just outside the shop showed the symbols of what are called "red-hand Gypsy fortune-tellers." The term is probably another unfortunate slur against the Romany; those "in the know" claim that the symbols betray carnie hucksterism as opposed to genuine fortune-telling. I'm not sure that I believe in the latter, but I talk to ghosts, so I'm not exactly in a position to judge.

The autumn day was bright, clear, and my real desire was to go get a good cup of coffee and read a book on the café patio. Still, it was good to glance into the windows of the shops and listen to the various voices of passers-by, human and therian alike. While I wandered and peeked, I also kept a weather eye on the "gift shop" in question, watching it's reflection in the windows of shops on my side of the street when I couldn't glance over. For a good twenty minutes, I saw shoppers walk past it, in either direction, but no one went in. No one even peered in the windows. The place wasn't exactly doing a land-office business. Perhaps the weekday didn't get the kind of traffic that sought out such places.

Padding to the near corner of Mariposa Drive, I decided to cross Timothy Street, the better to avail myself of half of my real desire. The coffee shop on that far corner produced a scent that had touched my sensitive vulpine nose not long before. The place must have had a good dark roast on their menu somewhere, and that's an aroma that will hook me faster than just about any other.

Minutes later, after acquiring a generous sampling of said roast (decaf, much to the proprietor's unexpressed horror), I exited through the door facing onto Mariposa. Coffee is the great scent-neutralizer, the best choice to clear one's sensitive vomeronasal organ. It was also tasty and soothing into the bargain. I'd taken my first sips when was hailed by someone on my left.

"You've got a lucky face, my dear!"

I turned toward the voice and found myself being smiled at by a human female togged in what might be considered "Gypsy" garb (again, may the Romany pardon my generalizations), standing near the sign advertising her name and profession. A peasant skirt and matching shirt, with a paisley scarf partially covering the black curls of her full head of hair. She wore little makeup, and it had been applied judiciously rather than heavily. Her eyes smiled as much as her mouth, and she held her hands clasped together gently at about waist height.

"Madame Roma, I presume? Teller of fortunes?"

"Lucky and clever," she complimented, her pronunciation tinted with something faintly Slavic. "You'll get a fine husband."

It was some classic carnie jargon and, although she didn't mean it to hurt, it did feel just a little like a blow. "I almost did," I said. "Fate said otherwise."

"Step into my shop, just for a moment. There's something you should know."

"About my future?"

"About what you came for."

She waved me toward her door, just insistent enough that she had my curiosity. That was her intent, of course, as well as her skill; however, her overall demeanor, even the tone of voice, gave me the sense that there was something more to this fortune-teller than mere hucksterism. I took the bait, cautiously, and joined her in her shop.

The place was festooned with "the usual" -- scarves and printed fabrics on the walls, trinkets and bric-a-brac on display, Tarot card decks for sale (along with other items for divination), semi-precious stones for the healing and alignment of the chakras, and even some CDs of music, much of it from (I presumed) local artists. Toward the back, a doorway to what was likely to be the reading room was separated from us by a floor-length bead curtain. The atmosphere was a mixture of expected cliché and a sense of warmth. Whatever else the proprietor might be, she wanted her customers and clients to be comforted. That took my estimation up a notch.

She followed me in, keeping a short distance away. _Respecting personal space,_the New Age types might have said. I let my eyes graze around the various items, noting a CD that might be worth considering. "Nice collection of music," I observed.

"Thank you, Charonite."

I narrowly avoided showing my shock, instead letting a forepaw caress a small collection of malachite in one of the bins of gems and stones. They are good for encouraging risk-taking, so the practitioners say. "An interesting profession, I'm told."

"Not all of us are charlatans." Madame Roma continued to keep her distance, but she moved a little further into the shop, as if making sure to leave a path open between me and the front door. A gesture of asking for trust.

I faked nonchalance. "What does your vision tell you?"

"I am not so powerful as to pluck your name from your mind, nor to tell your future. I see, interpret my feelings. For example... I feel sure that I know why you are here. Let me ask if you are working in your official capacity...?"

"No. I'm a civvie today."

Her head gave one short nod. "I didn't imagine that the city would acknowledge a poltergeist as sufficient complaint to send a Charonite to the scene. How did you hear of this?"

"My fiancé told me."

"And he is... oh... oh, not that..." Her face showed first surprise, then sorrow. "He is dead."

"Yes."

"I am very sorry. But he is still with you?"

"From time to time, yes."

Again, a single short nod. "He has told you of the Spotted Pony?"

"In great and humorous detail." I smiled back at her knowing grin. "You seem to know a lot about it."

"Indirectly. I know that the place can't sustain itself, not with the rents and prices around here. I know that the owner... well, you will form your own impression. For the rest..." Her grin melted slowly, as if she were considering a great many issues all at once. "I didn't know the spirit when he was in his body. I don't think this owner knows much about him either, perhaps nothing. I had only a sensation about the place. No actual contact. I think your abilities would be stronger."

I felt a sense of a blush trying to rise on my cheeks, and her grin came back. "Thank you," I said softly.

"We are both magic users, in our own way. Go. Find out what's happening there. Work your magic, just as I work mine." She looked at my forepaw, caressing the stones in the bin. "Do you feel something calling to you?"

"I was just grounding myself a little."

"Turquoise is good for grounding, but that man at Spotted Pony might think you'd stolen it from him. He has drenched the place in it, thinking it enhances that Native American image. I think I know something good for you." She moved behind her counter and reached into a basket with worry stones in several varieties. She handed to me a dark green stone with flecks of red in it.

"Bloodstone," I said softly.

Her nodding was slower, and it took more than one nod. "How does that fit your paw?"

"I'm really not looking for--"

"If it fits you, it's yours to keep. I think it might help you."

I looked up at her, gratitude and curiosity vying for first place.

"Bloodstone bleeds off negative energies, encourages selflessness, creativity. I think it is the grounding that you're looking for."

Before I could say anything further, the faintest whiff of wintergreen came to me, like a puff of breeze on a still day. I smiled at the proprietor even as I rubbed my thumb into the smooth indentation. "It fits me well. Thank you, Madame Roma."

"Good luck with the angry spirit."

"Perhaps he'll like my lucky face."

The teller of fortunes laughed with me. I took it as a good sign.

* * * * * * * * * *

I didn't let myself take too much more time before visiting the Spotted Pony. Padding quietly into the shop, the first thing I noticed was the feel of the place. While Madame Roma's store might be comparable (in terms of miscellaneous items of decoration and things for sale), her store felt welcoming and homelike, or perhaps "benevolent" would be a good word. Spotted Pony felt ludicrous and fake. I expected the owner to be either a yee-haw cowboy type or the image of a cigar store Indian brought to life. Either way, it would be a completely false front. My first instinct, on setting paw inside the place, was to laugh out loud. That would not serve me or the spirit I was supposed to find here, but it was certainly a temptation.

The only other furson in the place was a grizzled coyote, his long muzzle set in a firm sense of distaste, his large ears aggressively forward, the modest blue jeans and long-sleeved denim shirt covering fur that appeared to be largely sandy with black and gray mottling, and a faintly reddish cream under his chin. I marked him as a desert coyote, a distant cousin of mine along the canid line, and a good specimen of one as well. Rocket science was not required to know who he must be, in this little farce. I simply wasn't sure how to continue.

"Camouflage."

I turned toward the voice to see a human who was, by and large, about as "average" as could be imagined -- about 1.8m, perhaps 85kg, medium-color hair, brown eyes, fair skin made darker by regular UV treatments, possibly in an attempt to make him look more Native. It was the wrong shade for the desert Natives, and he was too young to have the weathered features and wrinkles that white-skinned humans acquire from desert life. He was dressed in a khaki button-down shirt (open at the neck), chinos, and desert hiking boots. Around his neck hung a gaudy example of turquoise-and-silver jewelry, similar to what was displayed in the store. What it lacked in beauty, it made up for in comic relief. The smile on the human's face was, I presumed, meant to be disarmingly charming; instead, it looked faintly predatory and insincere. As Madame Roma knew, perception is not a talent that most people have in abundance.

"Fox," he continued, looking at me with what passed for candor in his world. "Camouflage Medicine. We Native Americans invoke the spirit of Fox when we need to go unnoticed, to blend in."

"You're about as 'native' as Columbus was," the coyote grumped. The human ignored him or, more likely, didn't even hear him.

"I'm Jimmy Spotted Pony." The proprietor held out a hand to me. I took it with a little trepidation, and he shook my forepaw... well, like a white human would. The grip was too tight, the shake too firm. In my experience, the First Peoples -- human and therian -- grasped gently and, if there were any pumping, it was gentle, slow, perhaps only once.

"And I'm Geronimo," the coyote all but yelled. I tried not to laugh.

"Naomi McLeroy," I offered, seeing no reason to conceal it.

_"Yat-ta-hey,"_the human offered with a smile. "That's a Navajo greeting."

"It's y'at-tey, you ignoramus!" the coyote corrected. "Try 'haáhe'; that's Cheyenne."

_"Haáhe',"_I said quietly. "I'm told that's Cheyenne."

I now had the coyote's complete attention. That was a start. The next question was, how could I get him to tell me what's going on?

My human host blinked once but otherwise recovered nicely. "So it is. Are you part Cheyenne?"

There are therian First Peoples, just as there are humans who were native to this land before the invasion. The sense of insult came from the word "part," as if he could tell a full-blood Native, human or therian, by appearance alone. I was preparing some sort of witty retort when I heard a rattling sound from further in the shop. The human and I turned toward it. I saw the coyote looking at me, his eyes filled with knowing. What the human saw was the movement of a wire display full of bead necklaces appearing to shudder of their own accord.

"Much magic in this store," the man smiled, trying to cover up his own unease. I gave him a tiny bit of credit for not saying heap big.

"Might I go have a look? Perhaps they're trying to get my attention."

"Practitioner?" he tried.

"Curious," I said quite honestly enough. The coyote managed a smile at that one.

Jimmy Spotted Pony (a name which, on this human, made me think of a joke, one with the punchline of "Bucky Goldstein") led me back toward the display. I made a flick of my tail that I hoped would translate well enough from vulpes vulpes to canis latrans. I thought that I caught a slight nod of his head, so the message seemed to have been received. The human prattled on about authenticity, presumed uses, quality of the beads, the loving hands that had worked them... all a carefully rehearsed spiel that truly tested my ability to prevent eye-rolling. The coyote's commentary didn't help, and another flick of my tail conveyed a somewhat less polite message than the first, but at least he shut up.

"How did you come to own such a shop, in a town like this?" I asked.

"Not much opportunity, on the rez. I did some lookin', decided that I liked this town, and that I could bring my knowledge and various artifacts to the white man. Erm," he flustered, "begging your pardon, of course."

"Oh, not at all." It was difficult to maintain my composure while the coyote was making noises somewhere between laughing and screaming. I had the clear impression that he could yip and cry at least as well as his non-sapient cousins. It was also clear to me that he was having way too much fun at my expense. "Did you bring all this with you from the rez?"

"Much of it, yes. I found excellent merchandise during my travels throughout the Southwest."

I flicked my tail again before the coyote could get out more than the fricative portion of the vulgarity he was about to explode with. "It all looks quite lovely. I was wondering..." I reached into my jacket pocket where I'd put the worry stone, bringing it out for him to look at. "This has been mine for some little time now, and I was thinking I might find one like it to give to my fiancé."

"Dark jade," the human observed, just as if he knew what he was talking about. He reached for it, and I brought my forepaw back, shaking my head.

"It has a lot of my energies in it," I fibbed. "I don't let anyone else touch it."

"Yes," he hedged, "yes, of course." He raised his head and unleashed his attempt at being Knower of All Things. "Dark jade is good for attracting money or, as a worry stone, a way to help you let go of money worries so that money will come to you."

The coyote had only a single word to say about that, but he said it in such a way as to make the rack of beaded necklaces rattle again. Putting away the worry stone, I reached to still them, using the opportunity to look at a cheaply-made string of hematite beads. "Oh, these are very nice," I fibbed outrageously. I took the necklace into my forepaw and held it by the clasp so that the beads hung down of their own small weight.

"Good to keep you secure, safe from negative energies. Grounding, you know."

I didn't need the coyote's chuckles and headshaking to tell me that the human was full of Philip's "cattle poo-poo" description. When in doubt, say that an object or stone helps ground you. "True, very true," I offered, vamping with the moment. An idea struck me hard enough to make me smile a little. "I usually know when an object has an affinity for me. Something unusual happens when I'm holding it."

"You feel the energies, don't you?" The human's smile told me that he thought he was about to make a sale.

"Sometimes," I told him. "Other times..." I turned my body slightly toward the coyote "...it's something more obvious."

The coyote seemed to scowl, but not at my words. He reached a paw toward the necklace and pushed up slowly. What the human saw was the bottom part of the necklace appearing to defy gravity for a few seconds before dropping back down to let the beads fall back to their normal length. I turned toward the proprietor.

"I think they like me."

Jimmy Spotted Pony (as he called himself) was thunderstruck. It was about then that the coyote said, "From that expression, he looks like he's considering investing in some Depends."

I could no longer keep a straight face; I did my best to stifle an outright laugh, but I think I only succeeded in producing a snerk that the human probably thought made me seem even more evil. He stared at me for a few more seconds, then nearly stumbled over his own feet to back up and get himself to the back of his shop as quickly as he could. I put the necklace back onto the rack and turned to face the coyote again.

He looked tired, as I expected him too. It takes a lot of psychic energy (for lack of a word) for a spirit to cause physical manifestations. There are always exceptions to such rules, but they seemed to apply here. The scent that I caught from him felt weak, and the part of my mind that gave him a sense of visual presence also gave me the image of fading.

"I know you're weak." I spoke quietly and quickly. "Important things first. Tell me your name."

"In the 'legal' world, Wally Madden. Usually went by Jumping Mouse."

I nodded. "Can you tell me why you are here?"

"Obligation," came the soft reply. "Tied to... obligation."

"Is there something in the shop that keeps you here? Some object that..."

Whatever component of my senses translated Wally's presence as a visual image showed him to be growing more transparent. He seemed to be trying to say something, but I had no impression of what it was. The scent of him didn't change, but it did seem to fade. The timing was unfortunate, as I could hear the human returning.

"I'll come back. If I can't, I'll send someone. Remember my name -- Naomi. If you hear..."

The coyote was gone. None of my senses could detect him.

"Would you like that necklace?" the proprietor asked. He's managed to put his face back together, but he was still shaking. I was tempted to push the issue, but it seemed more prudent to give him his space back. I wouldn't be getting anything further from Jumping Mouse today.

"Yes," I smiled, retrieving the necklace again from its place. "I looked at a few others, but these seem to be the most interesting."

Paying more than the necklace was actually worth still didn't break my wallet. The human asked if I wanted a bag to put them in. I put them around my neck instead and adjusted them in front of my shirt, touching them gently. With a calculatedly cold smile, I said, "I can already feel them grounding me. I'm sure I'll be stronger in no time."

"Wear them in good health," he managed with a squeaky voice. I tried not to enjoy the feeling of having freaked him out. Okay, let's say I tried not to enjoy it too much.

* * * * * * * * * *

I waited until late evening to put in a call to Ren. To my delight, she would indeed be working tonight, and I met her at her office in the basement of the precinct building. It seemed only natural for an ocelot to enjoy what the humans called the "graveyard shift," since being nocturnal is a solidly-rooted species trait. She let me into the door of the Records Department and had us ensconced in her boss' office with ease. One reason that her searches couldn't be traced back to her involved using her boss' computer to do the work; the rest of the subterfuge would be peeking being the curtain, so I didn't even ask.

"Who are we chasing tonight, kemosabe?"

Her golden eyes showed no signs of knowing that she'd made something of a joke. I chalked that one up to coincidence. "I was about to ask you what you knew already. Try the name Wally Madden first. And yes, deceased."

Ren grinned, remembering a case we worked on where the spirit I spoke to was that of a young woman who wasn't dead but in a coma. "Local?"

"I would think so, but I'm not sure."

"Let's cast the net wide, then." The ocelot's fingers flew across the keyboard at a speed that defied mere mortal eyes to keep up. After a moment, the computer coughed up a large set of names. I made a short, soft warble that was my equivalent of a low whistle that humans made when confronted with something surprising. "That's a lot of cases."

"National database, and a comparatively common name. I used both 'Wally' and 'Wallace,' just in case. Can we narrow it down a little?"

"What's the computer's term for 'First Peoples' these days?"

"We get away with 'Native American,' which is its own oxymoron." She added the information to the search, which brought us down to several dozen choices.

"What else can you key on?" I asked.

"You're picking up the lingo," she chuckled softly. "Age, location, date of death, all the usual. We might have some luck with the tribal name, if you know it."

"Try Jumping Mouse."

"Gotta be a story behind that one." She typed it in almost faster than the screen could refresh itself. The list vanished entirely. "No hits." Erasing the tribal name criterion restored the original short-list, and she looked up at me for more ideas.

"Let's try local, or at least within a few hundred kilometers."

As I watched, the names list vanished again. The combination of name plus Native American plus local did us no good. "At least we're consistent," Ren chuckled softly, restoring the short-list. Her long tail twirled a little, expressing more the thrill of the chase than frustration.

Although my managed not to voice the curse that I was thinking all too loudly in my head, my own tail showed my agitation; I stilled it and apologized to my coworker. "Okay," I breathed out softly. "What else? I don't know his age; physical parameters won't help much..." I performed a mental head-slap. "Oh, snap. I'm picking up the humans' bad habits. Try species 'coyote'."

That brought us to three. "Much better. Anything look good?"

"Might be any of them. Let's try a totally logical shot-in-the-dark. Can you order the list from most recent date of death to furthest back?"

Ren pressed a single key, and the list of names more or less flipped on its head. The most recent was about a year ago. "Might as well start at the top."

"Wallace Woodrow Madden," she read the file aloud. "Coyote, age 53 at time of death. Coroner ruled a slip-and-fall. Owner of a resale shop near Sierra Vista, Arizona. Listed as a non-profit." The ocelot grinned. "There we go -- the shop was called Jumping Mouse."

"Did it have a website?"

Ren looked up at me with a soft smile. "Official records, I can look up without raising any eyebrows; an Internet search might get pinged back from some watcher program. Got your phone on you?"

I took the hint. Ren had teasingly called me a Luddite for not using my smarter-than-me phone (as I'd heard it called) as a pocket computer, Internet included. I pulled up the browser and made an enquiry... excuse me, "Googled." I found a website for the establishment, which told me first that our Internet footprint can last longer than we might. The modestly-designed site described the types of goods available, the hours and location, and a bit about the owner as well.

"Wally Madden (Wallace Mesa Dog, Zuni Nation) created Jumping Mouse Gifts and Resale Shop as a means to raise money for the drug and alcohol treatment centers on his and other Native reservations in the southwest," I read aloud. " 'I know what it's like, to be addicted,' he says. 'I was given help, when I needed it. Jumping Mouse shows us how to help others, by giving back. That is my goal'."

"Noble aspirations," Ren observed. "What's he doing here?"

"An obligation, he said." I thought more carefully. "He said he was tied to an obligation."

"We need more information. I have one more public record that I can check..."

What she brought up made me smile and offer my co-worker a paw-slap that the humans call a high-five.

...to be continued